Chapter 12
Celeste asked me whether I still loved her.
Of course she did.
We were alone for the first time since the foyer.
Her engagement ring remained on her finger.
Mine did not exist yet.
“Do you?”
she asked again.
“Yes.”
Her face collapsed.
Maybe she expected hate because hate would simplify things.
I continued.
“And we are not getting married.”
Silence.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“Because of something Warren started?”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“Because of something you did today.”
She knew.
Ava.
The trolley.
The staircase.
She closed her eyes.
“I panicked.”
“Yes.”
“I would never hurt her.”
“You already did.”
Her jaw tightened.
“She wasn’t injured.”
I stared.
There.
The sentence that finished whatever was left.
Not because she was uniquely monstrous.
Because after everything, she still measured wrongdoing by whether luck prevented injury.
“You pushed a three-year-old toward stairs.”
“I knew June was there.”
“You gambled Ava against June’s reflexes.”
Silence.
“That is hurting her.”
Celeste started crying.
“I love her.”
“I believe you.”
That surprised her.
I did.
Love does not automatically produce safe behavior.
That is why boundaries exist.
“I love you too.”
Her mouth trembled.
“Then why can’t we fix this?”
“Because love is not the only requirement for marriage.”
Silence.
“Trust.”
She looked down.
“Safety.”
More silence.
“And when your secret was threatened, you chose the secret over my daughter.”
She removed the engagement ring slowly.
Placed it on the table.
No throwing.
No spectacle.
Good.
“Will you ever forgive me?”
“Maybe.”
Her eyes lifted.
“That isn’t enough.”
“No.”
I nodded.
“It isn’t supposed to be.”
Forgiveness was not a replacement wedding.
Remorse was not a new engagement.
She could change.
I could care.
We could still end.
May you like
Adults in my family hated that kind of truth because nobody won.
Reality rarely cares.
